


Can't Get It Right

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Draco Malfoy, Adult Harry Potter, Alley Blow Jobs, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Infidelity, Internal Conflict, Love/Hate, M/M, Married Without Children, Past Hang-ups, Public Blow Jobs, Unhealthy Relationships, old habits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 07:05:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18089693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: "It's been six years since Hogwarts would etch its final mark on his timeline. Draco thinks that they should be over each other, over this. He tells himself that today will be the last but he knows himself too well to believe the lies he tries to sew through the darkest recesses of his mind. He knows that come tomorrow he'll be reaching for another flimsy excuse to hand over to his wife because Potter is more important. Potter has always been more important." Draco tries to right his wrongs but the harder he tries, the deeper he falls.





	Can't Get It Right

The pavement glistens beneath the soft pale glow of streetlights, lined up in neat rows and dressed in faux wreaths that likely smell as artificial as they appear. The rain has slowed to a light drizzle but it's giving way to the thick haze of fog that makes Draco want to choke. It reminds him of the claustrophobic hollow he used to play in when he was a child. He was too young then to understand the weight of his future but too old to still fear the dark reaches of the barren trees that crowded the _off-limits_ zone he found himself constantly seeking.

He knew that disobeying his parents was wrong, that they probably had their reasons for prohibiting his visits to the leafy hollow, but Draco couldn't eschew temptation and would sneak off to visit the mysterious sanctuary whenever he could.

It's a similar kind of wrong he feels when Harry fits his hands into his crisp button-down and crushes the fabric into a wrinkled mess within his fists. It's not for the act itself, Draco has been interested in men for as long as he can remember, nor is it for the look on his father's face—an image burned into the back of his mind like a coal-dark tattoo—should he find out that his only son's unhealthy obsession with Harry Potter has remained unchanged since puberty. No, it's the fact that Astoria is likely checking the mantle-clock for the umpteenth time, wondering when he's going to make it home tonight.

It's been six years since Hogwarts would etch its final mark on his timeline. Draco thinks that they should be over each other, over _this_. He tells himself that today will be the last but he knows himself too well to believe the lies he tries to sew through the darkest recesses of his mind. He knows that come tomorrow he'll be reaching for another flimsy excuse to hand over to his _wife_ because Potter is more important. Potter has _always_ been more important.

Draco slides a hand over Harry's scalp and knots the inky spill of his hair between his fingers. Harry hisses, an amalgamation of pain and pleasure catching between his teeth as his hips collide with Draco's hard enough to leave bruises along the angled jut of delicate bone. Draco exhales a shaky breath despite his better judgment because he can barely find a place for oxygen in his lungs between the nebulous heat and the effluvium of his arousal. He's shaking before Harry even drags the cool edges of his teeth along the smooth column of his throat, but when the dark-haired boy clamps down on the thrumming of his pulse, Draco has to catch himself against Harry's shoulders.

They're in a small, dark alley, grinding against each other like dogs in heat and Draco knows that he should feel ashamed, knows that he's supposed to want better but he throws all of the blame on Harry— _because it's always Potter's fault really_ —and it's reason enough for Draco to ignore the truth. Still and all, his excuses aren't _entirely_ inaccurate, rutting in a muggle alleyway is completely garish and Potter has always had questionable taste.

Harry's hands feel like bitter evenings when the season is frore and Draco wonders if he's only half-alive—that perhaps he never managed to fully escape death and a part of him is still hanging somewhere out in the ether, lost between the stars and the moon and the utter dark. There's alcohol on his breath and when he lifts his head to pierce Draco with an inscrutable glare that spells danger, the brilliant green of his gaze is eclipsed by the shadows that swamp his vision. But Draco is used to that look and he pays it no mind as Harry's hands explore his body with needless fervor, as if he's searching for answers that he'll never find to questions Draco doesn't think he even knows.

Draco's body is a map, a colorless sketch for Harry to chart when he grows bored with the rivers and the valleys that he's used to—except, Harry isn't accustomed to delicacy and he has no interest in subtlety, so he blurs the outlines and tears down the delineation until there's nothing left but the barest bones of Draco's existence.

Draco hates Harry for a lot of things but he hates him for this the most.

They're long past the age of thirteen—they're not sixteen or even eighteen anymore—they shouldn't be acting like love-sick teenagers. Draco knows this. They're in relationships with other people, people who _should_ be important. Draco knows this too.

It's not enough.

Harry's tongue traces Draco's lips, soft at first, then insistent and urgent. Draco thinks about denying him what he wants, but he doesn't because opposing Harry only means refusing himself, and if Draco still retains any former part of himself, it's that he's selfish. He parts his lips and welcomes the taste of Harry on his tongue: cigarettes and liquor and peppermint. Draco knows this place, he's been here before. He knows how Harry's skin feels beneath his fingertips and where he likes to be touched. He knows how to bend and to break him in all the right places. He knows which areas will make Harry hurt in the way he craves and which points of contact will earn him a black eye or a busted lip.

It's wrong. He shouldn't know these things.

Harry's tongue winds around Draco's own, hot and slick and desperate. It feels like competition and Draco thinks that in a way, it probably is. Harry needs to win, it keeps him sane. Draco just can't seem to figure out just what it is he's fighting for.

Then again, Draco supposes it's not fair to assume that Harry is still the same person he used to be. He knows he's not. He knows it in the way he clings to Draco like he's some kind of mainstay tethering him to ground more solid than the one he's standing on. He knows it in the way he looks at him, so desperate for something even he can't place—but there's a hint of suggestion in the brilliant green of his gaze that begs Draco to find the solution for him as if _he's_ the key to unlocking everything. It's a burden Draco doesn't know he wants to shoulder but he does it anyway because he can't live without Harry's picture-perfect version of fucked up.

So on the rare occasions when Harry treats Draco like he's someone to be revered, Draco treats him like dirt. Harry needs to lose, it keeps him grounded.

Harry's hands scrape against Draco's skin, calloused and cracked, his nails scratching against daisy-white flesh to draw red lines into his complexion. It's a sick form of art but Draco loves it, and when Harry reaches into his trousers, his eyes fixed on the unsettled glint of his own gaze, Draco can feel his heart skip into overdrive. Harry doesn't find whatever it is he's looking for in Draco's eyes and he scoffs disgust before he falls to his knees, and for some reason, Draco feels like he's falling with him.

But when Harry's finished and Draco's spilling his completion past the bruising red of his lips, things are just the same as they always were. Draco comes without saying Harry's name and when Harry pushes himself up and into standing, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Draco thinks to himself that he'll never do this right.

Draco watches Harry closely, not knowing what to say any more than the green-eyed disaster of a hero in front of him does. It's pathetic and sad and a complete waste because it can't even be considered an understanding. It's just reticent and cold and absolute emptiness. What they have is _nothing_. Draco tries to convince himself that what he does have is waiting for him at home, and Harry, the same, his dinner likely gone cold as usual. Then he notices the unruly mess of Harry's hair and the damp of his lips and the way his eyes are unfocused from the heat glossing his stare. He notices the way his shoulders are drawn up with tension and the way his hands shake with cold.

Draco bites his lip and finds the will to walk away from him, silently wishing for this to be the last time he sees the black-haired boy who's stolen so many years of his life and claimed them for himself. He tells himself that he has to stop taking this way home, that the potential outcome of running into Harry is too high, too much of a risk. Draco chides himself until he can feel raw emotion scrape against the dark of his throat when he swallows his pride. He's too old to be acting this way. He's too levelheaded to fall back into the gossamer webs that Harry's spun around him.

Draco cautions himself not to turn around but his heart and mind seem to have as much of a love-hate relationship as Draco does with Harry—so he doesn't listen and he turns around like he has any fucking right to. Harry's hands are buried in his pockets and Draco realizes that he no longer has to think about what it is that Harry's doing, he just _knows_. It's a terrifying revelation and Draco wonders just how long they've been doing this.

Harry lifts his head and looks at Draco, and Draco can see his eyes as clear as though he were standing right in front of him. They're empty, as is the custom these days, but just as vibrant as they were when Draco offered him his hand all those years ago. Harry nods pointedly and Draco simply turns and walks away.

Draco tells himself that he won't see him again. He tells himself that Harry's not important, that he's wasting his time, that he deserves _better_ ; a mantra that plays over and over in his head until he almost believes that he's not in love with the bastard.

Draco tells himself that Harry's the wrong one. He reminds himself that tomorrow's a new day and that things will be different. But tonight's rain showers are tomorrow's tears and Draco can't afford to wait until yesterday is here.

Harry's hands are cool against his skin, his touch bruising and desperate, searching for something Draco knows he won't find.

Still, he can't quit this. He can't quit Harry.

It's not the right place, not the right time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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